If You Believe

Prologue

JULY 1894 SOMEWHERE IN TEXAS

Mad Dog took the first punch. A hard-knuckled right to the chin that sent him stumbling back against the ropes. The sharp, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

A roar of approval swept through the crowd.

He shook his head and blinked. His vision cleared. The crowd stared back at him.

Hundreds of upturned faces, circlets of pale pink against a sea of drab, dark clothing.

They whispered in anticipation. He closed his eyes, listening, knowing what would follow. Waiting for it, needing it.

It started slowly, tentatively, a single voice, a single pair of clapping hands. One person joined in, then another and another, until the hot, dry Texas air became a living, breathing monster of enthusiastic sound. A pulsing chant of voices raised in unison. "Mad Dog, Mad Dog, Mad Dog . . . "

Adrenaline coursed through his body, made his breathing quicken. God, he loved this.

He pushed himself away from the ropes and sauntered toward the center of the makeshift ring. An expectant hush fell over the fairgrounds.

He backhanded the trickle of blood from his mouth and gave his opponent a slow, lazy grin. The same devil-may-care, you-haven't-hurt-me smile he'd given a thousand times before. "That the best you got, Sue?"

The huge, hairy man glared at him. His ham-sized hands balled into dangerous fists.

"Name's Stew, you two-bit piece o' shit. "

"Stew? As in Stewart?" Mad Dog glanced at the spectators. As if on cue, they leaned slightly toward him, waiting . . . waiting.

"Well, hell," he drawled, "with that punch, I figured your name was Susan for sure. "

The crowd burst into laughter.

"You arrogant bastard—" Stew lunged forward.

Mad Dog skipped to the left, ducked, and spun back.

Stew stumbled to a stop and looked around, confusion wrinkling his heavy face.

"Oh, Stew . . . " Mad Dog taunted.

Stew turned toward the sound.

Mad Dog punched him. Hard.

Stew staggered back against the ropes, clutching them for support.

Mad Dog glanced down at his fist and shook his head. "Damn, that hurts, don't it, Sue?" (

A ripple of laughter, punctuated by applause, worked through the crowd.

"Why, you . . . " Stew launched himself off the ropes and barreled toward Mad Dog.

Mad Dog braced himself, his lazy grin faded. He waited a tense second, then slammed his fist into Stew's jaw. Bone hit bone in a grinding, crunching smack.

Stew exhaled in a booze-scented grunt of pain. A look of almost comical disbelief crossed his fleshy features before he pitched, face-first, into the dirt.

The mob roared with approval.

Mad Dog looked up from Stew's prone body and grinned at the swarm of sweaty humanity gathered around the ropes. He raised his right hand and made a fist in the air. Then he grabbed a towel and wiped his face.